by J. M. Green
I twirled my linguine. ‘If Mortimer testifies, Copeland keeps his job. Mortimer’s gone to ground, but they reckon he’s still in Melbourne somewhere.’
‘What’s it got to do with you?’
‘Phuong thinks I’m good at connecting with the kids, learning people’s whereabouts.’
His laughter was not of the with-me variety. ‘What do you get out of it? A reward?’
‘I do it out of the goodness of my heart; also I owe her lots of favours.’
I waited for the speech — he’s a dangerous, violent man, you don’t know what you’re getting caught up in, you don’t owe Phuong something of this magnitude. If there was a time for a lecture or a caution, this was it. But he said nothing. He slathered his bread roll in butter and stuffed it in his mouth.
I sipped some wine. ‘Reckon you could ask your friend Jeff Vanderhoek for me?’
‘He’s not my friend.’
‘But he knows Mortimer.’
He shrugged. ‘Does he? I wouldn’t know.’
‘Actually, word is, The Ashbrook is Mortimer’s preferred watering hole.’
Brophy put down his fork, crestfallen. ‘That explains everything.’
He took his ringing phone from his back pocket. Seeing the caller’s contact details, he stood. ‘Hey, you. What’s up?’ He walked away from the table.
I pushed remnant pasta around on my plate. Mortimer was a man in hiding. He was never going to come here, out in the open like this. That kid in the restaurant toilets sent me here for a prank. I bet she knew more than she let on. Time I revisited a certain toilet.
‘That was Felicity,’ Brophy said, standing beside me.
‘No shit.’
‘Her concert was cancelled.’
‘What concert?’
‘She plays the horn, didn’t I tell you?’
‘I bet she does.’
He ignored that. ‘Anyway, she can model for me now. Can you drop me back at the studio?’
‘Sure, but I’m going on a little detour to Macca’s first.’
‘You what?’ Brophy was incredulous. ‘If you’re still hungry you can come back to my place; I’ll make you a sandwich.’
It was a tempting offer, until I remembered Felicity would be there. ‘I’m not going there for the food.’
18
THE LATE-EVENING traffic was light. I drove with the Mazda’s windows up against the cold.
As I crested a hill, I saw the revolving blue lights of two cop cars, parked in the middle of the road. All traffic was being diverted into Gordon Street, left and right.
‘Something’s up,’ I said, changing lanes. As I reached the intersection, a cop directed us left up Gordon Street. I obeyed, then took the first right into the back street that ran behind McDonald’s. I parked and turned the engine off.
‘So,’ I said gamely. ‘Coming in?’
Brophy coughed. ‘I’m not getting out of the car.’
‘Fine. What can I get you? A McFlurry? I believe they do sprinkles here.’
He glared at me; his sense of humour had abandoned him. ‘I’ve eaten enough shit for one night.’
The car park was swarming with people, a sea of young, hormone-addled cola addicts. From the general air of irritation, it seemed they had been kicked out of the place. Instead of going somewhere else, the young’uns hung around, huddled in cliques. Perhaps being in the fresh air was a frightening new experience for them. A cop was standing guard, arms folded, at the entrance.
I went up to the first person I saw, a young woman in a sleeveless puffy jacket, with thumbs working on her phone, and asked what the hell had happened.
‘Dunno,’ she said without looking up. ‘For some reason, they made us leave.’
‘Some reason?’
‘Who cares why? I totally hate my life. I’m freezing. Oh my god, I’m, like, in pain it’s so cold. Could my life get any worse? I want to kill myself.’
I tried another bystander, a boy of about thirteen also wearing a sleeveless puffy jacket. ‘This kid came running out of the dunnies,’ he said, when I asked. ‘He runs outside. Next minute, there’s this screech and a bang, exactly like someone chucked a sofa off a balcony.’
An oddly specific description, I thought.
‘Kid got hit by a truck,’ he added helpfully and pointed to a B-double, about twenty metres down the road, blocking two lanes. The rear trailer was diagonal to the front one, and long skid marks smeared the road behind it. The driver’s door was open. The ambulance was parked close by, lights on and revolving like at a party in slow motion. A tent of blue plastic had already been erected around the body. I got closer. Someone had put a shoe on the nature strip. Running shoes, the gold standard of youth. I recognised the shoe — a dirty Nike with undone red, white, and blue striped laces, little bulldogs on them.
Don’t let it be Cory.
An older woman was sitting on the ground, and a couple of concerned citizens were consoling her. Someone had found a blanket and draped it around her shoulders.
‘Everyone went outside to look except me and me mates,’ the boy was saying. ‘We made a dash for the dunny to see what was so interesting. We reckoned he probably saw a massive shit. But then the manager came and kicked everyone out.’
I walked back to the restaurant. Near the door was a man in a hi-vis vest talking to a cop, who was there taking notes. Nearby was a woman in a suit, who looked like the manager, and standing with her was a posse of fast-food workers. I went closer.
‘He stopped at the edge of the footpath, right there,’ the man was saying. ‘I thought he was waiting to cross, then all of a sudden he rushed out. But his head went back, like he got shoved in the back.’ The driver demonstrated a two-handed push. ‘Right in front of me.’
The cop wrote that down. ‘See anyone with the boy?’
‘I didn’t see. The kid was there.’ He pointed to a place on the footpath where the restaurant car park adjoined the apartment building next door.
The cop and the truckie noticed me, and I walked away. On my way back to the car I saw Alma leaning against the drive-through sign, tapping her phone.
‘Did you know the kid, the one who got hit?’
She raised her head. ‘The fuck are you?’
‘Stella Hardy. I met you here last night, remember? With that youth worker, Josie.’
Surprisingly, she smiled. Or smirked. ‘I remember.’ Her eyes shone with malice. ‘You were asking around about Mortimer. What’d you want him for?’
‘It’s a favour, for …’ I wasn’t about to tell this delinquent about my friend the cop. My mind raced — not a cop, think of a different occupation. ‘… A journalist. You know Bunny Slipper? She’s doing a story on … the Corpse Flowers.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Sure, sometimes journalists leave their cosy desks and go out on the street, talk to a couple of people. Mostly they make shit up, write whatever they want.’
I had to admit, the precocious upstart had a point. But not all journalists were slack. Not my friend Vince McKechnie, who was one seasoned investigator. I’d become fond of him when we were caught up in a mining-related conspiracy a couple of years ago. Sadly, his cancer had returned, and he was living out his days in a villa in Broome. As for Alma, I’d give her this: she had a cracking self-esteem and the cynicism of a politician.
‘You’re, um, above average, aren’t you?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘And you’re an idiot.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘You want Isaac Mortimer because you’re helping a journalist? Come on, we both know that has nothing to do with it.’
‘Wow, Alma. Sounds like you’ve got me all figured out. Why am I looking for Mortimer then?’
‘Trying to jumpstart your boring life.’
&n
bsp; I let out a laugh. ‘If you say so.’
‘Your life is so boring you could kill yourself, but then you read about these outlaws, these bikies, from the criminal underworld. They murder and torture people. Get too close and death is a real possibility, and just the thought of it makes you feel alive. The thrill and romance of violence, gets your blood flowing again like it hasn’t done for years.’
‘We’re talking about me, right?’
She scoffed. ‘Soon, you become obsessed. They have so much money, and they don’t give a fuck. They’re free from all the stupid social niceties.’
‘Yes, Alma’ I said in my driest voice. ‘Thrills. That’s it.’
She leaned in to whisper. ‘He knows you’re looking for him.’
I didn’t panic — she was hardly a reliable source — but I moved away from her, backing up until I stepped on a discarded cheeseburger. I shook it off. ‘Who told him?’
‘Not me.’ Alma pulled out a packet of cigarettes and grinned, daring me to guess.
I was losing patience with her. ‘Who got hit by the truck?’
‘You wouldn’t know him. Kid called Cory.’ She trembled slightly as she lit a smoke.
The heaviness swelled in my chest, and I feared my heart would be crushed. Nothing you can do, miss. I blinked. ‘How?’
‘I don’t know.’ She flicked her hair, smiled. ‘But if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.’
‘So, you know.’
‘Fuck you.’ She showed me her middle finger and burped.
‘Well?’ I waited.
‘You must have a death wish, or something.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Mortimer’s gone underground for a reason, in case you didn’t realise.’
‘Underground where?’
‘Jesus, just give up.’
‘The Corpse Flowers clubhouse?’
‘As if! They’d kill him.’ She picked at a nail. Her villainy show had run out of steam, and I sensed a fine crack showing in the hard shell.
‘What do you know, Alma?’
She brightened, bravado back in place. ‘You can’t touch me. I’ve got protection.’
‘You mean Josie, the youth worker?
‘She isn’t a proper youth worker. Couldn’t you tell?’
I acted shocked. ‘No!’
Alma’s lip curled. ‘Think you’re so clever.’
Delusions of gangsta, poor kid. ‘Go to the police, Alma. Get your mum to take you. Tell them exactly what the deal is with the kids and the Corpse Flowers. Do it now, so when the whole thing blows up, you might not spend half your life in jail. You might actually get your life back on track. Get the bipolar stabilised.’
She flicked the cigarette at me, missing my eye by centimetres.
I brushed the ash from my cheek and took one of my new business cards from my bag. ‘These people are violent criminals. This isn’t a game you’re playing, it’s real life, and they couldn’t care less about you. But if you’re ready to get your shit together, give me a call.’
I walked back to the car, and found a grumpy Brophy. ‘Are you driving me home, or do I have to walk?’
‘Kid got hit by a truck and died.’
He sat up, horrified. ‘A client?’
‘Not officially. But he was sweet, and funny. I liked him.’
He handed me a folded handkerchief. I wiped the tears and blew my nose.
‘I’ll take you home,’ I said. ‘Felicity’s waiting.’
‘No rush, I called her and cancelled,’ he said.
A tiny win at last. I started the car.
‘Didn’t know how long you’d be, and it’s not fair on her to keep her hanging around.’
Followed immediately, as always, by a tiny loss. Best to call it a night before I said something I’d regret. I swung the wheel and planted my foot, cutting off a car coming up behind me. The driver leaned on the horn.
I put my hand out the window, middle finger up.
19
THERE WAS not a parking space to be found in Paisley Street, so I slotted the Mazda in a bus zone and switched the engine off. Brophy sat beside me with his fists on his knees like he was ready for the team photo. ‘You don’t think the rules apply to you,’ he said.
‘I’ll move when a bus comes.’
He turned to face me. ‘Stella. Can I ask you something?’
I didn’t like that question. It had a bad vibe. I liked happy questions like, what’ll it be? Or, more cheese on that pizza?
‘That drug money, I’ve been wondering …’ He coughed.
The drug money. I knew what he was referring to. Several years ago, on a late-night call to some commission flats, I found a couple of dead drug dealers next to a stash of drugs and cash. In the blink of a reckless eye, I’d popped the cash in my bag. For years afterwards, I’d been haunted by guilt and fear. Guilt at the betrayal of my sense of what was right. A Catholic reflex, perhaps, to guard the future prospects of my eternal soul. And fear that the criminal owners of the cash — thirty grand, it had to belong to a king pin — might discover who had ripped them off. It wasn’t until Brophy convinced me that I would never be found out that I finally felt free.
I sensed a moral reprimand coming. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told him.
‘What made you take it?’
I’d asked myself the same question. What happened that day was not a decision. It was an instinct. I didn’t understand it myself. ‘I needed the money.’
He frowned.
‘You’re a reformed junkie, don’t judge me.’
‘I’m not. I’m … concerned.’
I laughed.
He smiled. I released my seat belt and kissed him on the mouth. I had a warm electric shock, and my mind fogged up. As I eased my torso over for full body contact, I slipped and the handbrake dug into my hip. I yelped in pain.
He looked sad. ‘Go home. Get some rest. We’ll see each other soon,’ he said, stroking my hip. Then he went severe on me. ‘And you’re definitely not going after any Corpse Flowers tonight, are you?’
He was making it into a big deal. Like that over-dramatic performance from Alma. As Phuong had said, this Mortimer thing wasn’t that much of a departure from my day-to-day grind: locating people who’d skipped out from their public-housing accommodation, or those who’d missed appointments with case workers. ‘No, there’s nothing more I can do.’
‘Think I’ll do more work before I turn in,’ he mumbled, getting out.
I watched him go up to his studio. We were okay. Though, unfortunately, Felicity’s pungent perfume still lingered in the car like rotting fruit.
I called Phuong. ‘Something awful has happened.’
‘Who is this?’ she said.
‘Oh, wrong number.’ I hung up. I’d forgotten about the stupid Raw-Prawn investigators listening to her calls. I’d never get used to her being under surveillance. Every Australian citizen had their personal electronic-data retained now, and yet as bad as that was, the invasion occurred notionally, at a distance. But the tapping of Phuong’s phone calls, that shit was real.
My fingers drummed the steering wheel. The wind came in gusts, strong enough to disturb the mysterious organic substance that decayed and sweated in plastic bags in a pile beside a wheelie bin. Grit came in through the open window. My childhood in Woolburn was spent powder-coated in orange dirt. In the intervening years, I’d lost my tolerance for dust, and I rolled up the window. The transcript of the Vanderhoek and Peck recording was in my bag. I read over it, circled some names while I waited. The Violent Femmes sang from my phone: number unknown.
‘Go on,’ Phuong said, as though nothing had happened.
‘Remember that kid from the car park last night? Cory? He just got hit by a truck.’
‘Oh, no. Did you witness it?’
> ‘I got there after it happened. But the driver said Cory was standing on the footpath outside McDonald’s and someone pushed him onto the road.’
‘All those places have security cameras. With any luck, they’ll have good vision,’ Phuong said. ‘Any news of Mortimer?’
‘No trace as yet. I went to his usual — no luck there.’
‘His usual … wait, you mean The Ashbrook? As if he’d go there. Stella, he’s on the run. You’re supposed to be getting the word from the street, not waiting for him to show up at his favourite pub.’
‘The word on the street is heard in the pub. Also, give me a break. As favours go, this is not like feeding your cat while you’re on holiday. Although that is a huge responsibility.’
‘I appreciate everything you’re doing.’
I caught the movement of a figure in my peripheral vision. I turned to see if it was Felicity. A teenage boy was lurching his way down Paisley Street. I watched him trip over the gutter and drop to his knees on the footpath.
‘You’re doing your best,’ Phuong was saying. ‘You’re a good person.’
The boy hoisted himself upright, and adjusted his pants so they hung down near his groin, showing ten centimetres of white underpants. He saw the wheelie bin on the corner and pivoted on his instep, delivering a roundhouse kick on that bad boy. It didn’t move. He kicked it again, harder. It solidly refused to tip over. Bin: one; drunken flaneur: zero. He grabbed the handle and pulled it down, spilling refuse all over the intersection. A lad of great determination, this one, prime-minister material.
‘Thing is,’ I said. ‘You’ve barely told me anything about these Corpse Flowers. You said this started with Vanderhoek, that he gave Bruce the information about Isaac Mortimer. But from the, er, package you sent, Vanderhoek doesn’t seem to have much power. I doubt he has much of a say about anything.’
A pause. ‘You received it?’
‘Yes, it’s fascinating. Tell me about the Spida Bar — why does Bruce go all the way to a bar in the Docklands for after-work drinks?’
‘It’s not important.’
I waited.
‘Bruce drinks there sometimes because it’s near Will’s apartment, he’s got a place in that purple tower next to the stadium.’